


Trinity Book II: Flames Prologue

by sknkodiak



Series: Trinity [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sknkodiak/pseuds/sknkodiak
Summary: Second part of Trinity. Someone is out to destroy Team Seven: Buck is in critical condition, Chris discovers there's a lot to the past that Buck never told him, and multiple attempts are made on Ezra's life.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I recently started revamping Flames in order to finish it. So I deleted the version that was previously here and am replacing it with the updated version. Nothing is drastically different plot wise but things in the world have changed in the 15 years since I originally started the story so I wanted to make it less dated.

 

Prologue

Florida:

Pirates Key was a small islet off the coast of Florida. Unlike some of the islands farther south, which boasted luxurious mansions of the rich and almost-famous, Pirates Key had only a dozen small homes, most of them lived in full-time by people who might easily be described as "eccentric" and had resided there for years.

Betty McClendon had been an artist of some local renown. Upon her death in the early '70s, her small, two-room shack on the north side of the Key had passed to her two grandsons in California. One of them had lived there for a while but he'd left to go into business in San Diego with his brother. It had been many years since either of the Simon boys-as the neighbors still referred to them-had been there for more than a week or so at a time.

Nonetheless, when in 1993 the property was sold, the inhabitants of the Key were upset. All the more so that the shack was torn down and a gleaming seventeen-room mock-Victorian mansion was built in its place.

But time passes and things change, even on Pirates Key. The new owner of the place, a man named Cletus Fowler, wasn't there much but when he ran into his neighbors he was always pleasant and seemed to understand the reclusive nature of people on the Key. The big parties and wild tourists the inhabitants of Pirates Key had feared never came about.

By the time Fowler came to live full-time on the island, the inhabitants had gotten used to his house and his boat. It took them awhile, but they eventually got used to Fowler's stunning blonde wife and the various silent men who seemed to work for him.

Fowler himself seemed to be retired although no one actually knew what he was retired from. His short haircut and upright bearing led some to believe he was retired military although that would not account for his apparent wealth. Fowler himself vaguely mentioned he was semi-retired but occasionally "consulted" for old friends. Five or six times a year he would be gone for a week or two. His wife took the opportunity to head out for shopping sprees in Miami or New York.

In time, the activities of Cletus Fowler and company just became another set of eccentricities in a community of eccentrics.

**_March 27_ **

One small lamp burned on the desk, creating a pool of golden light. The man known to his neighbors as "Cletus Fowler" stood just outside of the reach of the light, staring out the window. It was the darkest time of night, the hours before dawn. A sliver of moonlight peeked out from heavy clouds and cast silver radiance on the ocean.

The phone rang.

After the third ring, Fowler walked across the room to the desk, reaching out and picking up the receiver. He didn't say anything. He knew whom the call was from, just as the caller knew who would answer.

_"You were right."_

Fowler closed his eyes. "He's still alive."

_"Yeah. He's at University Medical Center. Been touch and go but they think he's gonna make it."_

"Damn."

A pause.

_"You want me to take care of him?" the caller inquired. "From what I could tell this afternoon, he doesn't have a guard on his door or anything. I could probably do it real easy."_

"No."

>I>"You sure?"

"You don't do anything. He's my problem." Fowler dropped the phone back onto the desk.

He walked back to the window. The moon had gone back behind the clouds and there was nothing to be seen but inky blackness.

"Damn."

He'd failed.

First time in his career.

He'd have to rectify that.

The man who had hired him might be in jail, but that didn't make any difference. He was a friend. An old friend.

More than that, he'd paid for a job. And the job wasn't done yet.

It wouldn't be done until an ATF agent named Buck Wilmington was dead.

Bolo Orlowski always finished his jobs.

_**Denver:** _

Arthur Curran sat alone in his library. A warm fire burned in the fireplace, warding off the early spring chill. Curran reached for the bottle of brandy on the table in front of him, pouring himself another drink. Sipping at the liquor, he slowly leafed through the pages of the photo album he held on his lap.

Most of the pictures were of his son. Steven. The early pages represented him as a baby, an infant, a toddler. Then his school years. It was the later pictures Curran concentrated on: those that showed his son as the handsome young man he had grown to be. Dark hair, blue eyes. He had inherited his mother's coloring and features; his keen intellect was all Curran. Steven Curran had been full of such promise. His father had looked forward to the day he could turn his empire over to his dearly loved son.

He closed the book, taking up instead a silver-framed photo from the table behind the leather-covered sofa. He studied the faces of his two nieces and his nephew. All the family he had left now.

Nina. David. Monica.

He had entrusted to them the greatest task he could.

To them had fallen the right to avenge the death of their cousin.

He'd offered each of them twenty million dollars and the chance to step away from the family business. It pleased him that none of them had taken him up on the idea. All three were committed to ridding the world of a murderer.

They'd already failed once. They didn't think he knew, but he did. He kept a closer eye on their activities than they could imagine.

He was disappointed in their first attempt. Well, not _their_ first attempt-from what he could determine Monica had come up with the idea all on her own-turning to Nina and David only when she needed help covering her tracks. It surprised Curran that Monica, of all of them, would have been the most aggressive. He couldn't help being pleased with her even though she could have brought down his whole empire. But Nina and David had leapt to assist her and all indications were that law enforcement was merrily following the false leads David and Nina had planted.

Now they were working together. Arthur Curran smiled. He had faith in his nieces. Of David, he was less sure. David was neither as intelligent as Monica nor as cunning as Nina. He wasn't subtle. That he could do the task entrusted to him Curran never doubted. But to do it and not leave a trail directly back to the Curran empire-that was more difficult. That would require wit and cunning and intelligence. In short, that would require all three of them.

Arthur Curran hoped they realized that now.

And, if by chance they should fail again, well, he had that covered too.

One way or the other, Special Agent Ezra Standish would die.

**~*~*~*~**

David Wyerly rolled over in the king-sized bed and kicked off the covers. He hated things touching him when he was trying to sleep. He used his arm to gently shove the woman next to him away. She mewled in her sleep, a sound of displeasure, but didn't wake. A few minutes later her even, soft breathing testified she'd drifted back into sound sleep. She snuggled close to David again and again he pushed her away. Then he abruptly climbed from the bed.

Nude, he padded across the small bedroom and exited into the short hallway, closing the door softly behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was wake up his companion. The sex had been good but her shrill voice gave him a headache. He wouldn't see her again after this night.

The smell of the tiny living room assaulted him: cigarette smoke, her overly-sweet perfume, and the Chinese food they'd had for dinner. Grimacing, he crossed the room to the sliding glass door, opening it and allowing the chill breeze into the room. The thin gauze curtains billowed like ghostly shadows. He stood looking over the city for a few minutes, inhaling the fresh air. The main reason he'd selected this apartment was for the view from the balcony. The apartment was tiny and almost ridiculously over-priced, but he wasn't there that much anyway. Most nights he stayed at his uncle's, usually only using the apartment when he had a date or when he just needed a break from the elegance and formality of the family home.

Steven had been with him when he'd seen this place for the first time.

Turning abruptly from the window, he switched on the lamp behind the couch. Soft yellow light filled the room. He dropped into the butter-soft leather cushions and pushed aside the cartons and debris left on the coffee table from dinner, reaching for his cigarettes. "Damn," he said aloud. He'd left his gold lighter-a gift from Monica last Christmas, a surprisingly appropriate gift for his cousin-in the bedroom. He didn't want to go get it and risk waking up the woman-what was her name? Started with an "L"...Linda, maybe or Lisa. Her purse lay on its side under the coffee table and he rummaged amongst the contents until he found a packet of matches. Lighting his cigarette, he leaned back and let the comforting smoke fill his lungs.

Steven...

His cousin. But so much more.

Best friend. Partner. Brother in all but name.

Funny but he had few childhood memories of his own childhood home. Most of his early memories were he and Steven, playing on the beach at his uncle's summer home in California. Christmas celebrations here in Denver, with the big house decorated and a huge tree and piles of presents. Only a few recollections of his own home, the small two-bedroom bungalow in Kansas City; of his parents, always fighting.

And then his mother had died. And his father had sent him and Nina away. "It will just be for a little while, dear," his aunt had comforted him. "Just until your father gets back on his feet.

He didn't even remember his father saying good-bye.

That first summer had been so much fun. They'd gone to Hawaii for a few weeks but he didn't remember much of it. Then back to the three-story house on the beach in California, where floor-to-ceiling windows were always open to let in the fresh ocean air and bright sunlight. Trips to Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm and the Hollywood Wax Museum. He and Steven, with Uncle Arthur always encouraging them to have a good time. So different from his own father who was always tired and in a bad mood and worried about the bills.

He and Steven...

Nina was too young to be included in most of their games and Monica was a shy, withdrawn child, who even then had preferred a good book to the company of her cousins.

The summer ended and they went back to Denver. He was enrolled in Steven's school for the fall. New clothes and stuff.

He never heard from his father again...never really cared to hear from him again.

He didn't need him. He had Steven. And Steven had him.

When had he realized what exactly Uncle Arthur's business was? Not the details but he thought he'd started suspecting early. Surely by his teens he'd known. Knew, too, that his life was planned already. Steven would follow in his father's footsteps and he would be at Steven's side.

The way it should be. The way it was. Through high school, college and beyond.

Until "Eric Stoddard" had come along. Charming, witty-a lot like Steven actually. They'd had a lot in common.

David's hands clenched into tight fists. No. Steven could never have anything in common with that...that bastard.

Eric Stoddard. True name, Ezra Standish. ATF agent. Fed.

The man who'd betrayed and murdered Steven.

Rage-blood red, swirling rage-blocked David's vision. That bastard. That bastard! The murdering SOB!

He would pay... pay for Steven's death. He would pay for taking away David's brother. He would pay with his life, and David would be the one to exact revenge.

He would do it because he had to. For Steven. Uncle Arthur's money be damned. Maybe that was why Nina and Monica were involved. Maybe not. But David would be the one to make Standish pay. Forget Nina and Monica and their involved schemes. He would take Standish somewhere and he would cut him, watch his blood trickle down to the dirty ground. Or maybe he'd shoot him-not to kill him-shoot him again and again until Standish was begging for it to stop, begging for death.

Or maybe burn him...

He didn't know how. But he was going to do it. Do Standish.

He had to.

For Steven.

**tbc...**

 


	2. Part 1

**Part 1**

_Denver CO  
March 29_

Chris Larabee stepped inside AD Travis' office. "You wanted to see me, Judge?"

It had been several years since Orrin Travis had left the Bench to accept an Assistant Director position with the ATF, but to Chris Larabee, as well as to most of the law-enforcement community in Denver, he'd always be "the Judge."

"Chris. Come in, have a seat."

Larabee obeyed, slipping into one of the two leather visitor chairs in front of the massive cherry wood desk.

Travis leaned back in his seat, studying the man in front of him. He shook his head. "Aren't you getting any sleep, Larabee?"

His characteristic half smile quickly crossed Chris' face, and just as quickly vanished. "Been a bad couple of weeks," he said evasively.

Travis nodded, raising his eyebrows. He knew how fiercely protective the leader of Team Seven was over his men, his family. And the last two weeks had been, to put it bluntly, hell. "I see that Mr. Standish has returned to duty. He's fully recovered, I trust?"

Chris nodded. There was no humor in the grin this time. "To hear him tell it there was nothing ever wrong with him. But his doctor released him. All the tests show no residual cardiac damage. Nathan's keeping an eye on him, just the same."

"That was a terrible business," Travis said, watching Larabee keenly.

The younger man's jaw clenched and familiar lines of tension creased his forehead and around his mouth. "Yep," he said curtly. "Ezra's in a meeting with the Assistant DA assigned to the case today. Berman, his name is."

"Ira Berman," Travis nodded. He still had a lot of friends in the DA's office and he'd been perturbed that a case of such magnitude--with federal charges in addition to local ones--had been assigned to such a relatively young ADA. "He's supposed to be quite brilliant." He paused, studying Larabee closely. "I stopped by the hospital to see Buck yesterday."

The ice-green eyes darkened briefly. Not for the first time Travis wondered how Chris Larabee could have any back molars left, he clenched his jaw so tightly. "He said you'd been by."

"What do the doctors say?"

Chris took a deep breath, let it out, took another. "It's going to be a long haul. He's stable enough now, but...a lot of things could still go wrong. And Buck..."

"Buck doesn't enjoy being a _'patient'?_ " 

"Patience isn't one of his virtues." Chris hesitated, and Travis got the idea he wanted to say more, but didn't. The silence stretched between them.

Finally Travis broke it. He handed Chris the manila folder he'd been studying when Chris had entered the office. "You have a new assignment," he said simply.


End file.
